


Of all the days in the week (Thursday is Draco's day to cook remix) Harry/Draco, PG-13

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-09
Updated: 2006-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale





	Of all the days in the week (Thursday is Draco's day to cook remix) Harry/Draco, PG-13

Because I am a total tubesteak, I completely missed the fact that the [](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/profile)[**hd_remix**](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/) participants had been [revealed](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_remix/10140.html).

I remixed [](http://mereol.livejournal.com/profile)[**mereol**](http://mereol.livejournal.com/) 's fic, [Thursday is Draco's night to cook](http://chanond.livejournal.com/37354.html). This was my first remix and I'm not terribly happy with the result, but it was learning experience.

Harry/Draco, PG-13  
Thanks to [](http://zahavah.livejournal.com/profile)[**zahavah**](http://zahavah.livejournal.com/) and [](http://kenovay.livejournal.com/profile)[**kenovay**](http://kenovay.livejournal.com/) for making this not suck and to [](http://hansbekhart.livejournal.com/profile)[**hansbekhart**](http://hansbekhart.livejournal.com/) for dealing with my wibbling.

 

 

**Thursday:**

He knew the minute Harry was home because Harry couldn't do anything _quietly_ , which was kind of pathetic since he won a war and all, and probably said a lot more about the Death Eaters than anything else.

"Evening, sweetheart," Harry called out, throwing his jacket onto the back of the couch and making his way through the dark sitting room, towards the bright lights in the kitchen.

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me, you tosser. You're late and I'm hungry." Draco managed to look extremely put out even with bits of garlic stuck to his cheek. "I had to _cook_ \- that’s practically _manual labour_. Shame on you."

Harry wisely refrained from pointing out that Draco only had to cook one day a week, and he barely even managed that. When they had moved in together three years ago, they had split it up evenly: Harry took the odd days and Draco took the even. It seemed to work out, until Draco's day actually rolled around and Harry found that Draco didn't know so much how to cook, as transfer things from one pan to another and sort of look busy.

"Sorry I was late," Harry said and rolled up his sleeves to help. "Got caught up at the Ministry."

"And by that you mean..."

"And by that I mean, Christine, my new secretary."

"Not for long," Draco muttered and began chopping tomatoes.

Wordlessly, Harry grabbed the loaf of French bread on the side and began slicing it diagonally. Within a few minutes, a sniffle caught his attention. He glanced at Draco, alarmed. "Look, I'll call next time I'm late, okay? Promise."

"Oh, you big idiot," Draco said and held up an onion. "And of course you won't call, you'll forget you even promised the moment you get a new secretary."

"What makes you think Christine won't last?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

"Because her name is Catherine," Draco said without looking up. "And because you _never_ remember to call."

"Well, okay," Harry said, at a loss. "You might be right," he admitted grudgingly after a slight pause

"I am always right," Draco said smugly. "It's a product of my superior upbringing."

After a minute, Harry asked dumbly, "Her name's really Catherine?"

"I despair of you at times, you know."

"Yes, yes. I drive you to the brink of suicide on a regular basis."

Draco pushed Harry out of the way to review Harry's handiwork, eyes narrowed as he counted the pieces out. After a few moments he announced, "That'll be acceptable."

"I'm glad you approve."

"Yes, but what are _you_ going to eat?"

 

***

 

Draco ate at a startling rate for someone so slender. Harry left him munching happily on an entire tray of bruschetta while he went to shower and get ready for dinner. The most important part of Draco’s night to cook was going out for food. Harry sighed as he kicked off his shoes and sat on his bed to undress. He kind of hoped Draco didn’t feel like anything too nice because he was tired and the starch Molly put in his dress shirts made his neck itch.

The water felt good against aching muscles. Monday, he had helped Neville repot some of the fanged Geraniums at the nursery for magical pants he owns; Tuesday, he had stayed in the back and worked on the books; Wednesday, the garlic he had rubbed into his skin to keep the fanged Geraniums from biting off various parts of his body had worn off enough to hold interviews for a new secretary; and on Thursday, he spent a leisurely afternoon sleeping with his secretary. Good week, he thought.

Once showered, he towelled off and tossed it on the floor. On second thought, he sheepishly hung it back up, imagining the look on Draco’s face if he left another wet towel on the floor. Harry picked out a pair of jeans and a shirt at random and tugged them on, then ran his hands through his hair carelessly. On his way out, he slipped into a pair of sandals Draco bought him last year.

When he came back into the kitchen, Draco eyed Harry critically, until his gaze stopped on his sandals. “I didn’t think you liked them.”

Harry shrugged. “No, they’re nice,” he said. “I just, you know, thought you’d like it if I wore them since we’re going out together and everything.”

Draco snorted and brushed a few invisible crumbs off his already pristine shirt. “What is this, a date?”

Harry felt his cheeks redden and said defensively, “Fine, I’ll take them off.”

“No, they’re fine. Harry - wait. I was just kidding.” Draco reached forward and grabbed Harry’s arm. “So what, is this really a date?”

Well, no, actually. The thought hadn’t occurred to Harry, but now it kind of-

Harry’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses thoughtfully. Well, why not? Draco was good-looking enough, they got on well, and Draco knew what Harry was like.

“Harry,” Draco said, slightly amused, “you’re making me self-conscious.” Which was a lie, because he was never self-conscious. He was born with the weird ability to look like a bloody fool half the time, but never doubt himself and never give others the opportunity to do so, either.

Harry wondered if he was like that in bed.

Draco sighed. “I know that look. Are we going to have to talk about this?”

“I’d really rather not,” Harry said hurriedly and stepped forward and kissed Draco instead. Talking was overrated.

His lips slid over Draco’s like they belonged together. We should, Harry thought, we should have been kissing all this time. It was hot, all soft slicked lips and Draco’s small panting breaths ghosting over his cheek as they broke apart and came back together again, Harry’s shirt fisted in Draco’s hands.

Draco’s teeth nipped at his bottom lip roughly and Harry sucked the injured lip into his mouth until he could feel it swelling to the point of pain.

“Bedroom,” he said, not recognizing the low tones in his own voice, and for once, Draco didn’t argue.

 

 

**Friday:**

 

Harry looked so peaceful that Draco didn’t want to wake him. Then his stomach growled in protest over not eating the night before, so Draco grabbed the blanket and rolled Harry off the bed, where he hit the floor with a dull _thud_.

“Ow,” Harry muttered into the carpet, dazed.

“My spirit may be satisfied but my body is not," Draco complained loudly and burrowed deeper into the warm sheets.

“Mfffpt spirits?” Harry asked vaguely from the floor. “Whoza?”

“I’m hungry."

It must have been a novel experience to actually wake up with another body because Harry looked more confused than his general state of Gryffindor dullness merited.

Draco stretched lazily, letting the blanket fall down to his hips.

“You’re not planning to go like that, are you?” Harry asked, hopping as he tired to get into his trousers. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes and ask him why he didn’t just sit on the bed. He mentally congratulated himself for his self-restraint.

“Wouldn’t want to start a riot,” he said smugly.

“You’re so humble.”

“Hurry up! I’m near famished and if I starve to death, you won’t be able to take advantage of my nubile young body."

“Yes,” Harry said, glancing meaningfully at Draco. “But perhaps you should put on pants before we leave.”

 

***

 

As they walked down the street towards the small Thai restaurant on the corner, Harry babbled about his day and what the guy on the metro said to him, and how _hot_ the new girl at the coffee shop was. They knocked shoulders companionably, feet scraping softly against the concrete, and about halfway there, Harry unexpectedly tucked an arm around Draco’s waist and Draco let himself lean into it.

“Mmm, this is my favourite place,” Harry said when they arrived.

“I know,” Draco replied. “That’s why I picked it.”

The restaurant was an intimate setting, dark and smoky, lit by low candles and deep, rich colours. They were led to a table in the back corner.

“Know what you want yet?” Harry asked, glancing over at him.

Draco bit his lip to keep from running his hands through Harry's ridiculously wild hair.

“What?” Harry asked when Draco didn't answer, rubbing his neck self-consciously.

Draco shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. “Come here,” he said softly. “Closer.”

 

 

**Saturday:**

They weren’t in the habit of spending Saturdays together: one of them always had other things, but this Saturday, Draco had a very cunning plan, which involved candles and pastries and hopefully lots of sex.

Harry would appreciate a meal that he didn't have to prepare himself when he got home, and not the kind where Muggles brought it to the door in little bags, Draco thought. He liked that kind of Muggle food best, but it always made Harry frown when Draco grabbed the bags of food and left the Muggle on the doorstep staring after him.

He spent the day watching those horrid cooking shows on TV, frantically writing down ingredients that he didn't recognize, and cursing intermittently when he realized _boil the eggs, then fold gently into dough_ couldn't be right.

Finally, he got some semblance of a meal planned and headed to the supermarket after grabbing Harry's emergency jar of Muggle money on the counter. Draco had decided that if having sex wasn’t an emergency, he didn't know what was.

Muggle stores always left Draco feeling uneasy the few times he'd gone shopping with Harry. There didn't seem to be any logic to them, or rather it was _foreign logic_. Tea with the vegetables? Every wizard knew tea leaves went next to chicken bones, so they belonged with the _poultry_.

On the third pass through the vegetables, a nice old lady offered to take a look at Draco's list and help him find them. Muggles weren't all bad, Draco mused as the old lady toddled in front of him, pointing out ingredients and waiting for him to put them in his basket before moving on.

"Surely you jest," Draco said coldly when he saw the wall of boxed pasta. He poked it experimentally. She was having him on and Draco didn't appreciate it - he had things to do, like have sex.

The old woman looked confused. "Isn't this on your list, dear?"

"Madam, I have had pasta, and this isn't it."

"You have to boil it first," she pointed out reasonably.

"Er," Draco said, "you don't have to boil the eggs?"

"Aren't you making bread?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

"This pasta gets softer?" Draco asked, picking up a box and shaking it a bit. He rather liked the sound it made.

"That's the idea, dear," the old woman said, looking tired.

Twenty minutes later, he was exhausted and the old lady looked like she’d seen better days, but he had his ingredients. He patted her on the head like a good Muggle on the way out.

 

***

 

The candles were lopsided, Draco decided, though they were really the least of his worries. The pasta wasn't supposed to do that, he thought. It was rather less pasta-ish and more the consistency of a brick. Draco sprinkled some water on it.

The bread was shaped more like a pancake; he might've forgotten the yeast. He had tried to bite into it and his teeth still hurt. And there was something brown on the ceiling that Draco didn't want to question too thoroughly.

He muttered a few cleaning spells, but the pots and pans didn’t budge. He repeated it. They still didn’t move.

“Okay,” he said after a minute, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, then caught sight of the brown blob and quickly averted them again.

Silence.

“I won’t ever cook with you again,” Draco promised.

The crusty pots and pans decisively marched towards the sink and began soaking.

He plodded tiredly into his bedroom, muttering about impertinent cooking utensils and how uppity they’d gotten over the years.

Draco slipped into the blue shirt and black trousers he’d laid out earlier, then ran a brush quickly through his hair. He couldn’t quite pull off Harry’s rumpled look, but it was good enough.

Harry’d be home shortly and Draco wouldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he saw dinner. On second thought, he turned the lights out and left the room candle-lit. It was better that Harry not look too closely at the food.

 

***

 

It wasn’t quite three hours later, but close enough. The clock ticked loudly in his ear and Draco’s foot tapped impatiently along to it.

This was, it was _stupid_ , just...

Draco’s hands shook and he firmly pressed them flat against he table to still them. He surveyed the untouched food. No reason to let Harry know how stupid Draco had been.

He blew out the candles and began clearing off the table.

 

 

**Sunday:**

 

Sunday was cold and rainy, but so many were. Draco was sipping tea and sitting at the table when Harry stumbled in looking a right mess as usual.

“Coffee,” he muttered blearily, slapping the counter like an impatient toddler. “Coffee.”

Wordlessly, Draco pointed at the empty coffeepot.

Harry had the good grace to look sheepish. “Are you not talking to me, then?”

Draco shrugged.

“I take that as a no?” Harry asked, eyeing the coffeepot again wistfully.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Draco.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night-”

Draco slammed his tea down with a harsh clink and some of the brown liquid sloshed over the sides. Draco swore, then demanded, “Is that what you think this is about?”

Harry looked flummoxed. “I don’t know?”

Draco sat back in his chair, depressed. What an idiot. “Never mind.”

“Look,” Harry said, beginning to get heated. “I said I’m sorry, I had to go over some numbers with Neville and it took longer than I thought. It’s not like we’re-” He stopped and swallowed thickly. “We aren’t, are we?”

“Aren’t what?” Draco asked.

“Aren’t, _you know_ ,” Harry said.

Draco stared down at his cooling tea, then looked back up at Harry. “No,” he said, voice surprisingly steady even as his chest twisted painfully, “don’t worry. We aren’t.” He brushed past Harry, but stopped at the door. “And take a shower, you smell like cheap perfume.”

 

**Monday:**

Draco packed his bags Monday morning, hands steady and eyes clear.

“Why’re you leaving?” Harry asked, standing at the bedroom door. He kind of already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it.

“I think it’s best I that I not stay,” Draco said, flashing Harry a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had too much pride to do otherwise.

“You don’t have to leave,” Harry said quietly.

“Yes, I do.”

The last things to come down were Draco’s posters from the hallway - signed photos of various Quidditch teams and an autographed, life-sized photo of Ireland's Chaser, Dean McCormack. Afterwards, the walls seemed bare, even if Harry’s posters of the Chudley Cannons did seem irritatingly smug at being the only ones left. When their posters had been on the wall together, the teams wouldn't stop fighting until Draco threatened to move one of them to the bathroom.

In the living area, Harry sat, silently watching Draco’s bags accumulate by the door. When Draco was almost done, Harry spoke up. “Please stay,” he said softly, almost too quietly to hear.

Draco shook his head. “I can’t.”

Harry looked away. “What did you expect from me?”

There were a lot of ways Draco could answer, but he stuck with honesty. He thought maybe Harry deserved it. “I don’t know,” he said with a half shrug. “But this isn’t going to work how it is. I can’t-” His voice faltered and he hated himself for it. “I can’t be second to whoever you’re shagging at the moment.”

Harry’s eyes had gone dark green with misery. “I shouldn’t have let the other night happen.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. He noticed Harry didn’t regret having it off with his secretary, it was _Draco_ he regretted.

“This is all my fault,” Harry muttered and rubbed his neck tiredly.

“No," Draco said simply. “It’s mine.”

 

**Tuesday:**

Harry's wants must have seemed so simple and ordinary to the observer: He wanted to have fun, to be loved and love in return. He wanted to be happy, to live a _good_ life, the kind that his mum and dad and Sirius would have wanted. Admittedly, Sirius would have probably approved more of the sleeping-around than his parents.

“Harry,” his secretary asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She gave him a meaningful look.

“No,” Harry said, and went back to his book. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that he realized he had it upside down.

 

***

 

Draco sliced through the bread quickly, set it aside and grabbed the tomatoes. And promptly cut his fingers. “Dammit,” he swore and grabbed his wand. He pointed it at the various diced food on the counter. He didn’t have a spell for bruschetta and even if he did, it wouldn’t taste the same.

He tossed the food in the trash.

 

 

**Wednesday:**

His stapler broke around noontime and he nearly screamed in frustration, because that was just how his day had been going and all the charms in the world couldn't seem to fix his cheap stapler. He stomped out fifteen minutes later after calling out that he'd be taking the day off and no one stopped him; it seemed having a mental breakdown over a stapler qualified as 'disturbing behaviour.'

Ron stopped by on his way home.

"Maybe you're better off without him," Ron said, eyes serious for once, sitting across from him in his kitchen. He'd seemed pleased when he found out Draco had left, Harry thought bitterly. He'd never thought the two of them living together was a good idea anyway.

No one really _got_ why Draco and Harry liked living with each other, or rather how Harry could possibly put up with Draco. Sometimes he did want to brain Draco over the head with very heavy objects, but there was more. There was how he looked at Harry: Not like he wished Harry were someone else, someone stronger, smarter, better, but like he _saw_ him, and sometimes Draco seemed to hate Harry for things he couldn't help, but it was better than not being seen.

 

***

 

“Mr Weasley is wanting to speak with you,” Winky said from the doorway of the library.

The firelight danced over the books at Malfoy Manor. Tales of curses and fierce witches contained between volatile pages of paper. Draco frowned at his near-empty glass of scotch and held it up to the light. He could have sworn it was half-full.

“Weasley,” he shrieked, when he saw an unsightly mass of red hair behind his glass.

“Er,” Ron said. “Are you going to put down your glass?”

Draco lowered his arm quickly and shot Ron a scathing glare, although he suspected that under the influence of the firewhiskey, it merely looked bleary. “Fine,” he said too loudly. “I have lowered it, but only because I wanted to. Not because you asked.”

“That’s great,” Ron said, looking like he thought it was anything but.

“Who let you in?”

“Winky left to ask you if I could have a word-”

“I said no,” Draco interrupted.

“No,” Ron corrected. “You were too busy staring drunkenly at your glass to answer, so I invited myself in.”

“Typical of your upbringing,” Draco said with a sneer.

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy.” Ron said exasperatedly. “I’m here to talk about Harry.”

“I’ve nothing to say to the backstabbing, whoring-” Draco’s mouth snapped shut. “Never mind.”

“Harry said you didn’t blame him.”

“Perhaps I do a little,” Draco said evenly.

Ron held up a hand. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“Your tiny brain would explode at a tale of such passion.”

“Malfoy,” Ron screeched, clapping his hands over his ears hurriedly. “That’s too many details!”

“Why are you here?” Draco said suspiciously. “Did Harry send you?”

Ron crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “No, but he’s miserable.”

Draco smiled, knowing it looked cold and brittle. “Forgive me for thinking he’ll find comfort in the arms of whatever secretary he’s seeing now.”

“You know what he’d like,” Ron said. “Why did you-”

It was Draco’s turn to hold up a hand. “We always think we’re going to be the exception, don’t we?”

Ron stared at his feet a few minutes and Draco remembered Harry spending a week with Ron after he and Hermione broke up and how Draco had mocked Ron. It didn’t seem so funny now.

“Yeah, we always do.”

Draco gestured to the couch across from him. “Do you want a drink?”

“I think I’ll need it,” Ron said, taking a seat. “Now let’s talk.”

 

 

**Thursday:**

Thursday, Harry walked into his flat, tired, aching and bruised inside. He tossed his jacket on the chair and slipped out of his shoes. Then, the smell hit him: warm, garlicky.

“Draco?” Harry asked, voice barely raised.

“This is hideously hard to make,” Draco said when he looked up to see Harry gaping in the doorway.

Harry’s mouth didn’t work at first and he swallowed convulsively. Finally, he managed to choke out, “Maybe you should turn on the oven first.”

“Maybe you should just do it for me,” Draco suggested.

Harry couldn’t keep from smiling automatically. He’d missed this more than he’d known - how had he let himself _forget_?

He pushed up his sleeves. “Okay, watch me so you can do this for yourself next time.”

“Sure,” Draco said, not meaning it at all.

Harry’s hands stilled on the onion he’d just cut into. “Draco?”

“Hmmm? I don’t hear the sound of chopping,” Draco said, fiddling with the oven.

Harry licked his lips nervously. “Why are you here?”

Draco stopped and turned to Harry. There were problems between them, things that wouldn’t be worked out easily. They were who they were and nothing could change that, but maybe they could be something more together. They had time to talk, Draco thought. Time to fight, time for lots of things.

But right now, he was hungry.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” Draco said softly. “Thursday is my day to cook.”

 

 

 

 

THE END


End file.
